And I Saw My Father
by VCalien2015
Summary: An exiled Noldo, the brave Sindarin maiden who loves him, and the mysterious guardian who leads him home. My take on the fate of Maglor son of Fëanor. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

**This story was a Christmas gift for the my dear friend Eryniel Alassë! :) It features a character from my work-in-progress "One Star in the Sky," though it's not necessary to read that story in order to understand this one.  
**

 **Just in case, a word on Rhavloth Cullasseth, for those readers who haven't read the last few chapters of "One Star":**

 **Cullasseth is my OC. She is a Sindarin elf native to Mithrim; she is a skilled archer and also has some knowledge of healing. She met the F** **ëanorians as a young woman when their rebellion brought them to Beleriand, and she and F** **ëanor shared a brief friendship before his death** **. She later became very close with Maglor and traveled with him as the wars went on. Because of what she saw when she treated Maedhros after his rescue, she feared torture, and so when the Dagor Bragollach came, she chose to die in battle rather than risk capture. She refused to surrender herself to Mandos' keeping and lingered as a wandering spirit until the end of the War of Wrath, watching over Maglor, though she could not interact with him in any way. She then came to Mandos, where she was later reborn with two tasks: to fight in the War of the Ring, and to bring Maglor home. At this point, she knows only that she must first take him to the White Towers, where he will stand before Eru Ilúvatar and his soul will be cleansed.**

 **This will be posted in four installments, three episodes in each. I hope you all enjoy! :)**

* * *

Maglor is cold, and that is all he knows for certain.

The wind is blowing in from the Gulf of Lhûn is not so terribly harsh, and nor is it so very chilling. No, it is the cold of time that has settled into Maglor's bones, the cold of ages spent wandering the coasts, eating little and sleeping less, wearing clothes that have long ago grown thin and ragged (if he squints down at his tunic, he can almost still make out the sigil of his father's house embroidered there). It is the cold of guilt, and of loneliness. He does not even have his music to comfort him, for his voice gave out some time ago, and his hands are too stiff with old burns to play.

He is not far from the White Towers, he knows. He knows also that the tallest of the three towers houses a _palantír_ powerful enough to look upon Valinor itself, but he does not venture there. He knows that will only make him lonelier still.

It is the cold of death also that gnaws at him, he knows. His body is so weakened now that it will not sustain him much longer, and his spirit cries out for rest. Death is close. He remembers at time when he was much younger, and a wolf bit his leg on a hunt, leaving deep, ragged wounds. He lost a great deal of blood before they could get him to shelter, and Fëanor was nearly beside himself with fear. Maglor had felt it then, too, the chill of looming death snapping at his bones.

He has never longed so dearly for the feeling of Fëanor's arms around him. As much as Maglor has tried to be angry with his father for dragging him into such a mess, he can never manage it for long. He loves Fëanor too much.

Needs him too much.

Cullasseth is warm, and that is all she knows for certain.

The waters of the Gulf of Lhûn are not entirely comfortable this early in spring, nor are the winds that ripple across it, raising up little white-capped waves. No, it is the warmth of youth that runs in Cullasseth's veins, the warmth of a thousand years spent healing in Mandos healing and coming to terms with herself and the decisions she has made, recognizing her strengths and forgiving her weaknesses. It is the warmth of war, and of victory. Battle breaks some, she has heard, and to others it grants strength. She is among the latter. She loathes death and suffering, but she revels in fighting for a cause she believes in.

It is the warmth of love as well, she thinks – what sort of love, she is not yet sure, but she is fairly certain that is what she feels for Maglor. What else but love could have made her reject the Call of Mandos and risk her own immortal soul to stay by Maglor's side?

Guilt could have done it, she thinks – guilt for throwing herself in front of a dragon rather than doing the sensible thing and fleeing the Gap when the Dagor Bragollach came. But she does not dwell long on that. Guilt is a cold sentiment, and one that she will not tolerate for any length of time. Cullasseth has tried to be angry with herself for what she has done, but she sees no point in it. She has far more important things to do, and she cannot afford to waste her energy on anger.

Anger is costly and inefficient; determination is focused and sure.

Cullasseth could not be called beautiful by elven standards – pretty, yes, but not beautiful. Yet to Maglor, starved to the point of death for companionship and affection, she is the most wondrous creature he has ever laid eyes on. Her light brown curls are wind-tossed and turning red in the late evening sunlight, her slender muscles hardened and her hands calloused by war. She could be a fire goddess, Maglor thinks, or a goddess of the earth, arisen from some subterranean abyss to return spring to the land.

He should be stunned to see her, he knows, for the last he knew of her was that she had been lost in the Dagor Bragollach. Yet he finds that he cannot summon any such emotion up from the depths. He has not been able to for a very long time. In the wake of Maedhros' death, which left him with a grief far too terrible to bear, he decided that the only way he could carry on was to feel nothing at all. And so he let the wind and the water numb him, numb him to the core, and now he is cold. Frozen, even.

It would indeed take a fire goddess to reach his heart now.

"How have you come here?" Maglor asks her by way of greeting. He has long ago ceased to be taken aback by how feeble and hoarse his voice sounds.

To her credit, Cullasseth's gentle smile does not waver, though Maglor can see from her eyes that she is hurting. "The Lord of Mandos released me from his keeping and told me where I might find you," she says. "This is quite a lovely beach, isn't it? I have always wanted to see this place, and the White Towers, and the haven of Mithlond, but the war on Sauron kept me far from here."

The Gulf of Lhûn is indeed a fair place, a place of rolling green hills and white sands and waters that are set aflame at sunset. It manages to be at once gentle and wild, just like Cullasseth herself. Maglor understands why she likes it.

"I hate the sea," he says.

Cullasseth blinks. The hurt in her eyes deepens, but her countenance remains serene. "Why so?"

"It mocks me," Maglor says bitterly. "It sings to me unceasingly, reminding me that I myself can do so no longer. It reminds me always of what I have lost, of how far I have fallen. And when the sun sets, it turns red, and it shows me Alqualondë and Losgar, and then the night falls and I see Eärendil's star, and my father –"

"Your father?"

Maglor knows that Cullasseth loved Fëanor once, that she was as much his friend as she was his surrogate daughter. He knows that she desperately wants to hear that Fëanor has been reborn, but Maglor has no news of the sort. On the contrary, he knows that his father must still be dead, because he haunts Maglor's dreams some nights, a ghostly figure wreathed in flame, denouncing him for losing all six of his brothers and casting away the Silmaril as if it were worthless.

He does not entirely believe these dreams to be anything more than figments of his tormented soul, but nonetheless, he thinks it best not to tell Cullasseth of them.

"What of your father?" Cullasseth asks again.

"My father is dead. I am reminded constantly of that when the sun turns the water to fire, of how I was too late to save him," Maglor says. It is only half a lie.

"I hardly think he blames you for that," says Cullasseth gently, and she means it.

"Even if you are right, I suspect my brothers would be less charitable on that count. I failed all of them. I let them slip away from me, one by one."

Cullasseth sits down cross-legged on the white sand, and there is a light in her eyes, the same light of absolute resolution that Maglor remembers from when she tended to Maedhros in the aftermath of his rescue from Angband, when she swore again and again, I will not lose you as I lost your father. You will live.

"What if I told you that several of your brothers have been reborn, and now await your return in Valinor? What if I told you that your mother awaits you as well, that she has an army now, an army that fights in your name and your father's and in the name of all the Noldor who fell? They bear you no grudge, you know. They never have. They want nothing more than for you to come home to them."

Maglor does not want to go home. He does not think he could bear to face all of those he has wronged in his father's name, much less the friends and comrades he led to death in the wars. Eru, all those horsemen, his poor loyal horsemen who burned to ashes in the Bragollach… How could he face them, if they have been reborn, he who sealed their fate when he called for a retreat but called too late?

Maglor says none of this. Instead, he says,

"I cannot go home, Rhavloth Cullasseth. All paths are closed to me."

Cullasseth is smiling again, shaking her head gently and wrapping her small hands around his. He can feel her callouses against his skin. They remind him of his father's hands, and his mother's. They are hands that have done hard work, to be sure, and there is strength in them that is comforting even through the ice around Maglor's heart.

"One path remains open still," she tells him. "I am that path. I am your way home."

She says nothing more, but stands before him in silence and allows the implications of this to sink in. Maglor can only think how strange and proper it is that they should be standing here, she all aflame and he frozen to the core, just as Fëanor once stood before Fingolfin on a different, faraway beach and dared him to follow.

The two situations, though they are entirely different in some ways, are quite similar in others.

888

"What power have you to bring me home, Rhavloth Cullasseth?"

"None, really. I am merely the messenger, sent to convince you to undertake the journey."

"My condolences to you, then."

The sun has gone down into the sea, lending its light to the water. Night has fallen, and the two are sitting on opposite sides of a driftwood fire, roasting some meat Cullasseth had packed away with her. She watches the sparks rise into the dark sky and smiles, thinking of fireflies. Maglor watches as well and then looks away, thinking of the burning chasm that took Maedhros.

This has become a familiar routine over the past few weeks.

"Have you forgotten how it used to be?" Cullasseth asks gently. "There was a time when I could convince you of anything simply by looking into your eyes."

"I remember. Had you said the word, I would have made a charge on Angband and laid down my life at Morgoth's doors."

Maglor remembers, but there is no emotion associated with it anymore. He remembers that he once loved Rhavloth Cullasseth so dearly that a glimpse of her smile could make the deepest winter's chill melt from his bones. That passion is gone. Everything is. Now his memories seem silly, ill-fitting, as though they belong to someone else.

Well, the good memories seem that way. The bad ones still suit him perfectly.

"Things have changed since then, Cullasseth," he says.

Cullasseth pokes at the fire with a stick. The flames crackle sharply, and a piece of driftwood snaps, giving voice to the biting frustration she feels. No, Maglor is not the man she once knew. She suspected it would be so long before she came to the Gulf of Lhûn, and she accepted it. Even so, she still was not prepared for the reality. Certainly, she has no defense for the feelings that lance through her heart every time Maglor looks at her with those cold, lifeless eyes. The light of Aman is long gone from them. The fire that Fëanor bequeathed to him is gone, too.

But Cullasseth is well-accustomed to not giving up. She has been in many battles in her time. As the leader of the Godspeed Unit and a high-ranking member of the Vanguard, there were several occasions on which Cullasseth found herself standing upon the line between victory and defeat. Many times, she has looked despair squarely in the face and put an arrow through its heart. She led the eagles in the Battle of the Morannon, lending what aid she could and praying all the while that Frodo would reach Oroduin in time. She rode with the Rohirrim down the Pelennor Fields and did her best to raise morale when the Mûmakil appeared to turn the tide. She ran through Lake-town as Smaug rained fire from above, young Bain at her side, and ensured that the black arrow reached Bard before all was lost.

She remembers trying to explain to Bain that fire does not frighten her, because she had a friend long ago who was fire incarnate, who opened the gates of her imagination and dared her to do the impossible. She remembers not attempting to explain that she died by dragon-fire, and in that moment of destruction, she was created anew. Cullasseth herself was only beginning to see that at the time.

No, ever since the Dagor Bragollach, when she knowingly, willingly forfeited her life, Cullasseth has not counted "give up" among the many strategies in her arsenal. She does not intend to start now. She is Maglor's last hope now, just as she was Bard's last hope in Lake-town. It is a role she is very comfortable in. All her life she has lived on the edge of danger, and she has come to recognize that she never feels more alive than when she is inches from death.

Now, if she could only find some way to lend Maglor the life that blazes forth unchecked within her… What can she say? She has been trying for a fortnight now, and she has yet to come up with a solution. She has told him again and again that his brothers long to see him, that his mother has forgiven him everything. She has striven to convince him that he is not evil, that the Marrer was at work in his life, and that the Noldor who fell in the wars will be reborn all the stronger for their losses. She has evoked all the pleasant memories of home and family that she can think of, but none of it seems to get through. Maglor remembers, yes, but he does not feel. He has built an impenetrable wall around his heart, and no sentiment can reach him.

Finally, a last, desperate thought strikes her. It is selfish, it is childish, and chances are good that it will never work, but she has to say something. Certainly she cannot simply break down and weep, no matter how she might want to. One does not weep in the midst of battle, not even when a dragon is glaring at you, open-mouthed, and you can do naught but watch the fire rise up his throat.

Not even when one feels as though one is looking into the Void itself.

"Aye, things have changed," Cullasseth agrees, "but somewhere in your heart, you still care for me, do you not?"

Maglor considers this. Cullasseth's presence evokes none of the joy and longing that it once did, and yet…and yet, there is something there. He cannot say exactly what it is, but it seems that when she is with him, the sea wind seems less harsh. The nights seem a touch shorter, the air a little warmer, and the sunsets a bit more bearable. Yes, if Maglor thinks about it, Cullasseth does have some sort of positive effect on him, however small it might be.

But why? Is it because, deep within the recesses of his heart, a bed of embers still smolders with emotion? Is it because the tales speak truly when they say that when two Firstborn fall in love, the love never fades? Maglor does not know, so he does not answer.

Cullasseth is persistent. "All right, then. Would you still protect me if I was in danger?"

That question is easier. It does not delve into any of the deep emotions that Maglor is no longer certain he possesses. Yes, he would protect her. Cullasseth does mean something to him, he knows, though he cannot feel it any longer. Were she in danger, his instincts, in place of his emotions, would tell him to defend her.

"I would," Maglor tells her.

Cullasseth draws in a steadying breath, braces herself to fail once again and start all over. "Then would you protect me now?"

Maglor blinks. This is not at all what he expected to hear, and he does not know quite what to make of it. "Are you in need of it?" he asks.

Cullasseth nods, eyes wide and dark. She leans forward, the fire throwing strange shadows over her face. She seems entirely earnest. "You see, the Lord of Mandos was not altogether pleased with my refusal of his Call for so many years," she says carefully. "It was he who set me the task of bringing you home. If I can do that, I will have atoned for my sin, and my soul will be saved, but if not, I… Well, I do not like to think what might become of me."

This is entirely true. A bit dramatic, Cullasseth thinks, but entirely true. And it has an unexpected effect on Maglor.

A thought bursts into his mind, sudden and sharp and angry. _Lord Námo! You have taken my father and my brothers, and now you force Cullasseth to do your will in order to redeem herself! I do believe you enjoy punishing the Fëanorians and all who ally with them!_

For a moment, Maglor is warm.

And then the anger passes, and he is left wondering where on earth it came from. He has not felt anger in ages. He has not felt anything in ages. Why now? What ties once bound him to Cullasseth, strong enough to stir in his frozen heart this tiny flame? For the first time in what seems an eternity, he wishes to unlock his heart, if only to remember how this extraordinary maiden once made him feel.

"What must I do?" he asks. His voice betrays none of his thoughts.

"You must go with me to the White Towers," Cullasseth says. Her voice betrays none of her thoughts either, but within her, she is relieved enough to faint. "At the tower of Elostirion, your soul will undergo a trial the nature of which I do not claim to comprehend, and if you succeed, you will be healed and made clean and sent on to Valinor."

Maglor's initial reaction is to say no, for in his mind, _trial_ is synonymous with _punishment_. He hardly needs the aid of the Valar on that count; he is doing a fine job of it on his own. But then, Cullasseth has a fierce streak of loyalty, he knows, and she yields to no code of ethics but her own. And she cares deeply for him, Maglor knows. She has apparently defied Lord Námo once already; if instinct told her that there was anything harmful awaiting Maglor at the White Towers, she would have refused to take him there. Cullasseth has no room for malice in her heart. She would never abandon Maglor to some terrible fate to save her own soul.

Yet…is that not precisely what she did when she threw herself in front of that dragon during the Bragollach?

When she left him?

Maglor tells her all this, and he can see that it wounds her deeply. Cullasseth does not deny his accusations, but when she tells him how many years she spent watching over him as a houseless spirit, defying the Lord of Mandos and gambling her immortal soul, it changes everything. It changes everything to know the reason behind Cullasseth's refusal of the Call, to know why she has been tasked with earning her redemption.

Something begins to prickle deep within Maglor's heart, and he is astonished to recognize it as guilt. For even guilt, once such a close companion to him, has now become a stranger.

He gives Cullasseth no word, but that night Maglor dreams of the sunset, and of his father. Fëanor's ghostly figure burns as always, but more softly now, and he has no scathing words of condemnation for his secondborn this time. Indeed, he speaks no word at all, but rather beckons Maglor to bow his head and kisses his brow in what is unmistakably a benediction. His touch is gentle, so achingly gentle, and filled with an infinite love. Maglor has the distinct impression that this Fëanor is the true one, and that the bitter Fëanor he dreamed of far too often was but a trick of his tortured mind.

He wakes with the beginnings of tears in his eyes, the lingering warmth of Fëanor's touch on his skin, and the answer he knows he must give Cullasseth in his mind.

888

Deciding upon a difficult answer to a difficult question does not make it any easier to give that answer.

It is a much harder answer to give than Cullasseth understands. She is a capricious spirit, and it is not in her nature to dwell on things, good or ill. She wastes no energy on grudges or guilt. She forgives, forgets, and carries on living life, drinking in as much of it as she possibly can. Nothing stays with her long, nothing but loyalty and love.

The Fëanorians are different. To them, things are forever, for good or for ill. Bonds between them transcend distance and time and death. Memories are engraved upon their hearts, and it seems as though the sorrowful ones etch themselves ever deeper than the joyful ones. Fëanorians are slow to forgive and slower to forget. It is not easy for them to let things go. Sometimes they never do.

Cullasseth does not understand this. She does not understand why Maglor still carries guilt for lives that were lost more than two Ages ago, many of which have since been restored. She does not put much stock in guilt. It was Nerdanel Istarnië herself who taught her that it does no good to dwell upon one's losses: none but the Allfather can save the dead; better to consider how one may save the living. And if anyone upon Arda understood loss, it was Nerdanel Istarnië.

There is something else Maglor fears as well, Cullasseth knows: he fears his brothers' wrath. He cast away the jewel they fought and died for, the jewel their father died for. This is his greatest shame, the one thing above all others that keeps him from returning home. He can face the rest in time, Cullasseth thinks, but he cannot face this. This cuts too deep, too close to his heart.

So she waits. She gives Maglor the quiet and the time he needs to gather his courage and confront his failings, as his Fëanorian nature tells him he must.

In the meantime, Maglor thinks, and he dreams.

He dreams of his mother, sometimes, and of his brothers. Nerdanel comes to him clad in a leather jerkin, a sword at her waist and Fëanor's ancient, soot-blackened helm under her arm, her red hair braided back with a tiny Fëanorian star at the end. She was always beautiful to Maglor's eyes, but now there was a strength about her and a light in her eyes. She was a twist of steel and flame, an avenging angel. Suddenly, it was not at all difficult to see her as Cullasseth's commanding officer.

They meet in the middle of a golden forest, Nerdanel at the fore and Maglor's six brothers behind her. How many of them have been reborn, Maglor cannot say, but they all look well, clad in beautiful robes of crimson and gold, red and yellow thread braided into their hair. Huan lolls at Celegorm's feet, tail wagging gently. None of them seem inclined to hurl bitter words of accusation. Even Maedhros tells him he is silly for staying away for so long, that if things had been different and Maedhros had been left alone at the end, he too would have been inclined to throw the Silmaril as far away as possible.

And Nerdanel leans on her sword and says, "You know, he who fears to ride into battle is no coward. The coward is he who lets his fear keep him from riding at all. The only time when we may be brave is when we are afraid, dearest one. Remember that."

Occasionally, Maglor dreams of his soldiers. One of his captains appears before him in the golden wood, a young elleth who died of smoke inhalation in the Dagor Bragollach. He remembers holding her hand as she died, and he remembers thinking that her Quenya name, Aranyë, was one of the most beautiful he had ever heard. She salutes him cheerfully, as was her way in life, and thanks Maglor for letting her fight with him, for preparing her to enlist in the Vanguard and carry on serving her people.

Mostly, Maglor dreams of his father. They do not meet in the golden wood, but on the shore of the Gulf of Lhûn, with the sun setting the water ablaze behind them. Fëanor is dressed simply enough, in a traveling cloak and sturdy leather boots, his ebony hair streaming out behind him like a pennant. This is the Fëanor of Maglor's childhood, the Fëanor who was always ready to sweep his sons away on some wild adventure and always prepared to bring them safely home again.

Fëanor smiles gently and takes Maglor's arm, leading him away down the beach. Maglor stands stiffly at his side, never trusting that Fëanor will not turn on him at any moment with vicious words of condemnation.

"Why so ill at ease, child?" he asks Maglor one evening.

"Do you not wish to curse me?" Maglor returns.

"And why would I curse you?" Fëanor's countenance is far more serene than it ever was in life, more relaxed. Suddenly, he reminds Maglor of Cullasseth in the way his benevolent smile never falters.

"Because I cast away the Silmaril."

Fëanor eyes him critically for a moment, and Maglor has the distinct impression that his penetrating grey eyes are staring right into his son's soul.

"Perhaps, somewhere deep in your heart, that was your way of casting away the person you were, the person the wars created. Perhaps some part of you intended it to give you freedom, and a new start. Perhaps your mind twisted it from an act of release into an act of shame."

"Then you…you do not blame me?"

"Of course not. What, after all, did the Silmaril mean to you but sin and death? If at one time you saw it as your last link to me, that had long faded, unless I am very much mistaken. Why should you have kept it? Why should you not have broken your chains, so to speak?"

"Because of the Oath, Atar. Upholding the Oath was the last thing you ever asked of me; how could I renounce your dying wish?"

"Oh, you upheld the Oath a thousand times over in your life, Káno. You did more than I could ever ask of you. With your own blood and tears, you bought the right to renounce your vow and all it stood for."

"You mean to say you forgive me?"

Fëanor draws Maglor's head gently down, as he does every night, and kisses his brow. "There is nothing I need forgive, child. You have proven your love and loyalty to me beyond any doubt. You need bring me no jewels."

Maglor does not pull away, but keeps his face buried in the folds of Fëanor's cloak, breathing in the smells of smoke and evergreen.

"Then what must I do?" he asks, his chest suddenly, inexplicably tight.

"You know. At least, you know the beginning. You must tell Cullasseth that you will go to the White Towers."

"But I…I fear the Allfather."

Fëanor cants his head and lays a hand alongside Maglor's cheek, eyes glittering strangely. "Did you ever fear me?"

"Only once. At Losgar."

"Then why on earth should you fear the Allfather, who loves you with a perfect and unconditional love such as you cannot imagine, and who would never bring you to harm?"

Fëanor releases Maglor, and the little embers licking up and down his limbs grow brighter and brighter until the Spirit of Fire fades into the sunset.

The next morning, Maglor takes his father's counsel to heart, and gives Cullasseth his answer.

* * *

 **References**

 **The Vanguard -** my own invention. A small, skilled host established and commanded by Nerdanel, wife of Fëanor, composed largely of elven women and a few mortal women. **  
**

 **The Godspeed Unit** \- also a product of my imagination. A band of Vanguard soldiers who ride eagles into battle - the Vanguard's air force, so to speak.


	2. Chapter 2

**Here's the second installment! I hope this gets your curiosity going... To be totally honest, I'm don't have definitive explanations for some of the abstract concepts in this section, so let your speculation run wild! :)  
**

* * *

The White Towers make beautiful, lonely figures against the evening sky, each upon its own hilltop. They remind Maglor of sentinels, the way they guard the passage to Mithlond, and to the West. They also remind him of Maedhros, standing tall and firm on the walls of Himring (standing at the edge of a gaping chasm riven with flames, his copper hair tossed by the ember-filled wind). His heart squeezes painfully.

Together, he and Cullasseth approach the base of Elostirion, a spire of pearl and marble and white stone. It has no door, but stands open to the air just as the Mindon Eldaliéva does in Tirion. In fact, though the towers were a gift to the kings of Men, all elves know that it is Valinor with which Elostirion stands aligned. It houses not only a powerful palantír but also a beacon, just as the Mindon does, and at night, the two rays of light merge into one single beam to guide travelers across the sea. Maglor knows the distance between Valinor and Middle-earth should make this impossible, but it does not.

Somehow this only makes him feel even farther from home.

He and Cullasseth stand at the base of Elostirion for a moment. Neither of them can see clear to the top, where stone meet sky, no matter how they crane their necks. It is colder in the shadow of the massive structure, but it is not only this which makes Maglor shiver.

"I can go no further," Cullasseth tells him. It is true, much as she wishes it were not. This is Maglor's journey, and he must undertake it alone.

"I understand," Maglor says. This too is true, much as he wishes it were not. He fears that he will need Cullasseth at his side if he is to face whatever awaits him inside the tower. He will need her courage and her optimism, and her wondrous ability to live and let live.

Cullasseth strokes his cheek, tucks a ragged strand of hair behind his ear with such tenderness as would have made Maglor weep once. Now, it only causes a dull ache to settle deep in his chest. This is an improvement – a few weeks ago, he would have felt nothing at all.

"I will pray for you," she says, "and know that wherever you go once you pass through that doorway, my spirit will be with yours."

She squeezes Maglor's hands, wanting to tell him how desperately she hopes that when he leaves the tower again, he will be a different man – the man she loves – but her lips refuse to form the words.

Maglor returns her fierce grip, wanting to thank her for getting him this far, wanting to tell her that without her he might have walked into the sea and never come out again, but his voice seems to have deserted him.

Cullasseth releases him, kisses his lips, and turns him to face the tower doorway.

Maglor draws a breath. His heart is racing with a terror even he cannot fully explain, yet in the same moment, he feels more alive than he has in ages.

He steps into the tower.

Nothing at all remarkable happens, at least not at first. It is naught but a spiraling staircase that lies before him, lined with lamps burning with a dim amber light. Maglor climbs, his footfalls echoing loudly against the stone. For a long while, this sound is his sole companion. After some time, it is joined by Maglor's ragged breathing, for though Cullasseth has kept him well-fed over the past weeks, he is still quite weak. The continuous upward spiral is fast leaving him exhausted and dizzy.

He looks down. The stairs behind him have fallen away into darkness, black as the deepest circle of the Void. He can go nowhere but up.

Finally, frustrated and spent, and with the staircase still extending unendingly before him, Maglor collapses against the tower wall. He has not the voice to scream, much though he wants to. He looks at the lamps and decides, spitefully, that his father could have crafted much better. He pulls one of them viciously from its bracket without stopping to wonder what strange substance makes it burn, for it is certainly not fire, and hurls it at the stone beneath his feet. It shatters, glass shards spraying up the stairs and down into the darkness.

The next moment, Maglor turns around to find the lamp in its bracket on the wall, quite whole, without even a scratch or a crack.

At once curious and infuriated, he takes the same lamp and throws it down again. It shatters. It reappears in its place in the blink of an eye.

"Eru, what is this place?" he growls to no one in particular. "What spell lies upon it?"

"Kanafinwë Macalaurë," comes a familiar voice just ahead, "did I not teach you that you must never destroy what another has created? That right does not belong to you."

Maglor looks up to find Fëanor standing not far up the staircase, clad as though he has just stepped from the forge. The amber glow of the lamps causes golden sparks to dance across his skin.

Maglor has never been so relieved to see anyone in all his life. Even if this Fëanor is but a vision, at least he is company.

"Adar! Adar, this is a strange place; I know not how I have come here."

Fëanor cants his head and smiles gently. "You are precisely where you ought to be. Come."

He extends a hand. Maglor takes it. The moment he does, it dissolves into flames, as does the tower of Elostirion around him. The heat is overwhelming, and yet when Maglor raises a hand to shield his face, his clothes and skin are not burned.

The flames fade as quickly as they have come, and Maglor finds himself in the midst of a silvery glade wreathed in mist. All is white, from the grass beneath his feet to the slender tree trunks to the sky above. In the center is a creature whiter than all, a stag with magnificent antlers bearing more prongs than Maglor can count. On each prong are what appear to be stones of many colors, and these shimmer in the pale sunlight so that a dancing rainbow is thrown all about the clearing. Maglor thinks it may be a trick of his imagination, but it seems to him that there is an energy pulsing through those antlers and down into the ground, a vital and living energy.

The stag dips its great head and paws the ground. It is so clean, so pure that it makes Maglor's heart ache.

He follows.

The stag leads him on through the forest and into the night, past a lake that shines like obsidian glass and mirrors the sky so perfectly that Maglor cannot tell where water ends and stars begin. Then suddenly, the lake is gone and they are out on a plain of tall yellow grass that ripples in the wind like liquid. Then they are walking through a maze of granite spires and rocky crags, then a sheer cliffside where the sea hurls itself against the rock, then a snowy wasteland where the glaciers shine with a blinding light and the water is darker than the darkest night, then a vast underground cavern of crystal and stone lit by a dim red glow that comes from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Through all this, the stag takes many different forms. Maglor tries to catch the moment when it shifts from one shape to another, but he never can; the transition is so perfectly seamless and fluid. At one moment it is a golden-haired boy with ageless blue eyes, the next a little sparrow nestling on his shoulder, then a shaggy black wolfhound with a patch of white on its chest, and then a star above him, brighter and more steadfast than any Maglor has ever seen.

Sometimes his guide vanishes entirely, but never for long. No matter which form it chooses to take, the energy pulsing through its veins remains, flowing beneath skin, feather, and fur like liquid gold.

Finally, Maglor's guardian, now bearing the form of Fëanor once more, halts before him. They are on a sheer mountaintop, the wind whistling around them, tiny rocks clattering down the slopes now and again. A pika squeaks from its crevice amidst the boulders and sparse grasses. There is snow dusted here and there, yet for once, Maglor does not feel cold. It is sunset, as always.

Maglor's guide sits down before him on a flat-topped rock and gestures for Maglor to do the same. For the first time, Maglor realizes that it is not fire which runs up and down Fëanor's body, as he always thought. It is that same pure golden energy he has seen pulsing through his guardian all throughout their journey.

It certainly looks like Fëanor, and yet…

"Fear not to speak, child," says Maglor's father, the wind tugging at strands of his raven hair. "No question is forbidden here, though at times you will have to find the answers for yourself."

"Are you…truly my father?" Maglor asks.

A strange smile plays over Fëanor's face. "Yes," he says slowly. "Yes, I am."

"But my father was cast into the Void ages ago. He must have been. The Oath –"

"Certain words lose their power in time. Things change, child. You have spent long enough wandering this earth to know that very well. Look at you. You yourself have changed, though not for the better."

"Is it too late for me to change again?"

"If it was, dearest, you would not be here with me now. The question is – and this is one you shall have to answer for yourself – do you wish to change? Do you wish to confront your past and reclaim your home and your happiness?"

Maglor considers this for a moment, and decides he has come much too far to turn back now. Had he wished to retreat, he suspects, that amber lamp would have remained shattered on the floor of Elostirion, and he would have been able to walk back down the tower the way he came.

"I do," he says.

Fëanor places his hand with its veins of liquid fire atop Maglor's, and it is the most gloriously warm thing he has ever felt.

"Then let us begin."

888

Whether or not Maglor's strange guide is truly his father, he is just as demanding as Fëanor was in life. Their place of meeting varies – sometimes it is a forest, sometimes a crystal cavern, sometimes a grassy plain, but it is always sunset, whatever that might mean. Maglor never witnesses the moment of transition between locations, either. At times, Fëanor's ghost, if that is indeed the nature of Maglor's guide, allows him to rest, and when he wakes, they are in a different place entirely.

But the content of their sessions never changes. The ghost is ruthlessly persistent, asking one question after another, requiring Maglor to delve ever deeper into his own soul and touch upon increasingly more painful memories until he feels inclined to scream. Maglor is not at all certain that any of it is helping him. He can never answer all of the ghost's questions, and the answers he can give are shaky at best. All he seems to have achieved thus far is heightened awareness of how far he has fallen.

The ghost does not seem bothered by Maglor's lack of improvement. Perhaps he is able to detect progress so subtle that Maglor is oblivious to it, or perhaps he is merely possessed of infinite patience. This last is certainly not true of Maglor, and he does not think he can bear many more journeys into his past, where the happy memories hurt far more to touch than the sorrowful ones.

"Sing for me, child," says Fëanor one evening on the mountain. The tone is gentle enough, but the words bear a command nonetheless.

Maglor bows his head, feeling wretched. "I cannot."

The ghost's clear countenance does not falter. "Not ready for that just yet, hmm? That's all right. Will you play for me, then?"

Maglor casts his gaze to his bandaged hands. Though he has changed the gauze many times over the years, it appears yellowed and filthy in the pristine light of the mountain sunset.

"I cannot," he says miserably.

The ghost is neither angry nor frustrated. He never is.

"Why not?" he asks.

Maglor is certain that Fëanor knows exactly why not, and this is but another of his tests. Another day, this might have infuriated him, but now he cannot summon the strength to be angry.

Maglor extends his hands to the ghost slowly, dejectedly. He draws a breath of mountain air into his lungs, inhaling the coldness and the crisp, wintery smell of smoke. "After Nel – after Maedhros died, the only way I knew to bear the grief was to sing. I sang for years and years, lamenting our deeds and our dead, telling the story of my people to the wind and the sea. I do not think either of them cared very much. In the end, my voice simply…gave out. And as for my hands, well…that was the jewel. The burns I bear are the mark of my sin. They run too deep to allow me to play."

The ghost nods solemnly and takes Maglor's hands with a gentleness that reminds him forcefully of his childhood, when Fëanor used to braid little gems and beads into his sons' hair for festivals. Roughened and calloused as his fingers were by their hard work, he always took the utmost care not to cause his sons even the slightest discomfort.

It is with that same infinite tenderness and care that Fëanor unwraps the bandages from Maglor's hands now, revealing the scarred, silvery flesh beneath. The angry red of the burns faded long ago, but the stiffness they left in Maglor's fingers never did.

The ghost makes a soft noise of sympathy in his throat. "Poor dear." He caresses the palms of Maglor's hands with a fingertip, and he feels a strange, pleasant tingling spread through the skin. "These are the wounds that have rendered you unable to play, I see. Well, let us see if we can remedy them."

Maglor's breath catches in his throat. If he could play, why, it would be like being born again! He would have his music once more, and then surely life would become at least a bit more bearable. But in another moment, the cynicism of ages returns to him, and he feels his hopes slide away like melting water down an icicle.

"The damage is far too great," he says hoarsely. "What power have you to reverse it?"

Fëanor laughs low and tenderly in his throat. "Oh, I think I can manage. But these are wounds of the spirit as well as of the flesh, child. I can heal your skin and muscle, but you alone can heal your soul. On that count, I can but be your guide. I can give you the words you need, but in the end, you must speak them. You must forgive yourself."

Maglor leaps to his feet in frustration. So it has come back to forgiveness again, as it always does – the one thing he knows he is incapable of reaching.

The ghost is too quick. Before Maglor can think of some biting remark to hurl, Fëanor says, "I do not mean this instant. I do not mean tomorrow or the day after. When the time is right, you will know, and you will be able to release your past and grant yourself absolution. Until then, have patience and have hope, and do not press yourself."

"But we have been speaking for…" Come to think of it, how long had Maglor and Fëanor been working together? Time had no meaning in this spirit world.

"These things take time, dear one. You have ages and ages of guilt and self-deprecation to undo. Do not be upset if you cannot do so all at once. Now tell me, Kanafinwë Macalaurë, why did the jewel burn you?"

This question sounds utterly bizarre coming from Maglor's father, but then, Maglor is not entirely sure that the ghost _is_ his father.

"Because I am a kinslayer," he says. He has heard the word so many times, both from his own lips and from the lips of others, that its sting has grown dull. It is merely the truth now, and nothing more.

"Ah. I thought you might say that. It is not so," says the ghost.

Maglor loses his breath as surely as though he has just fallen from a galloping horse. Many, many times he has named himself a kinslayer, but never has he heard anyone deny it!

"What do you…what do you mean?"

"You _were_ a kinslayer," says Fëanor. "That is not who you _are_."

"What is the distinction?"

"We play many roles in our lives, and we take on many different personas. Those things define who we _were_ , but who we _are_ – that is something far deeper, something that never changes, something that nothing can take away. Who we are is what we feel in our most secret hearts, what we believe in with all our souls, the foundation of our identities. Perhaps you were a kinslayer at certain points in time, but who are you?"

For a moment, Maglor cannot speak. He has never heard the matter explained this way, and he is not quite certain what to make of it.

"I am…a son of Fëanor," he says hesitantly, feeling that this is not at all what the ghost is looking for.

"Yes, you are," says Fëanor warmly, "but perhaps this is too difficult of a question for now. Keep it in your heart. I shall ask you this again instead: why did the jewel burn you?"

Maglor considers what Fëanor has just told him, tries to work his mind around the subtle difference between _were_ and _are_. "Because…because I had blood on my hands, and those whose blood I spilled had not yet forgiven me, had not granted me the mercy I needed to cleanse my soul. Because I had not yet forgiven myself."

"Do you think it would burn you now?"

"Yes. Perhaps not as much, if those I slew have found it in their hearts to forgive me."

The ghost nods slowly, as if weighing Maglor's words. "Better."

He strokes Maglor's burned hands with his fingertips once more, and that strange tingling spreads through him. Maglor wiggles his fingers experimentally – and nearly tips backwards off the mountainside in shock when he finds that they are, subtly but undeniably, less stiff than they were before.

This does not escape Fëanor's notice either. "Hm," the ghost muses, with a faint, enigmatic smile. "That is very interesting."

"How did you do that?" he breathes, heart racing, hardly daring to believe what has happened.

"I did not, child, not really. _You_ did. Now carry on."

888

"Kanafinwë Macalaurë, who are you?"

Every session with the ghost begins and ends with this question. Maglor never seems to have a good answer. That does not stop the ghost from asking.

This evening, they find themselves on a beach very much like the one on the Gulf of Lhûn, only more peaceful, more beautiful, and more perfect. The sea breeze does not smell of salt and fish, but rather carries the sweet fragrance of lilies. The gulls here do not shriek raucously to one another; rather, their cries have a certain music to them. Even the sand seems softer and warmer than it should.

The sunset is the same – radiant, and vibrant, and painful.

"A child of Eru," Maglor says idly, more to pacify the ghost than anything else. He tosses a piece of wood onto the campfire and watches the sparks flutter upwards. He is not entirely certain why he even bothers with it, as the air is not cold. Perhaps it is a force of habit. Perhaps as a son of Fëanor, he is simply drawn to the fire, regardless of the harm it has done him.

"Now, you shall have to try harder than that," says the ghost, eyebrows drawing together in gentle disapproval. "You are hardly putting forth any effort this evening."

"Is it not true?" asks Maglor, prodding at the fire with a stick. He finds himself watching in fascination as little glowing embers skitter across the dunes like living things, lifted by the breeze. "Am I no longer counted among the Children of Eru?"

"Of course you are," says Fëanor. His gaze follows the embers. One of them is blown into the sea, and it dies, extinguished by the rushing water. "But you do not believe it."

This is only too accurate. Ages of self-deprecation and of the word "kinslayer" being hurled at him like a barbed dart have made him doubt that the Allfather did indeed give him life. One can only hear oneself called a monster so many times before one begins to believe it, after all.

"Not entirely," says Maglor, dead-voiced. "Am I not a k –"

" _No_ ," says the ghost. Maglor is taken aback, and at more than the unusual fierceness in Fëanor's voice. He has never interrupted Maglor before, not even on those occasions when he strayed irretrievably away from the point. "You were a kinslayer for a few moments in time. That is your past, not your identity."

"Does the past not define us, then?" Maglor challenges, a fierceness creeping into his own words now.

"Of course it does – to a point. But the past is a terribly changeable, malleable thing, child. Consider the oldest tale you know. I would venture to guess that you have heard many versions of that tale told over the years, all of which are different but possessed of the same backbone. The past is just the same. It can change vastly depending on whose lens it is viewed through, and from what vantage point, but it too has a backbone, a core of truth, that will never change. That core is what contributes to our identities."

"And what is found in that core?"

"Oh, lessons learned, bonds forged, future courses altered, those sorts of things: the things that stay with us all our lives and become part of our souls. Now, rather than naming yourself a kinslayer, you could tell me why you fought in the Three Kinslayings. That would be far more valuable in uncovering your own core of truth."

Maglor casts his gaze down so as not to meet Fëanor's penetrating, otherworldly eyes. He watches another ember go tumbling into the waves to its death. He thinks he knows how it might feel.

He does not want to think about the Kinslayings again.

"Well," he says evasively, "the histories give many different reasons…"

"I care not for what the histories say," the ghost interrupts, waving a hand dismissively. "I care not for what nonsense is currently being spread by loremasters who never set foot in Alqualondë or Doriath or Sirion. I wish to hear what you say on the matter. You were there. You know the truth."

This is something Maglor has never been given – a chance to explain himself to someone who will listen, someone who cares to hear his tale in his own words. He can recall more than one occasion on which he swore to give his very soul for the opportunity he is being handed now. Painful though it is for him to speak of the Kinslayings, he feels an inexorable tug deep within him, a strange force pulling at the words on his lips and drawing them forth.

"I…I made a promise to my father." Maglor does not say "to you," for he still is not convinced that the being who sits before him is indeed Fëanor. "He was in such torment when my grandfather was slain, and I could not stand to see him suffer so, so I did the only thing I thought might help. I swore the oath he set before me, promised him my fealty. When he fell, I made him the same promise once more, because I thought it would ease his passing. The Kinslayings were how I held to that promise. I suppose they…they were also my attempt to fulfill the Oath and escape the Void, because I had been so, so terribly afraid of dying and of the Darkness ever since Ungoliant came to Valinor."

"And what does that say about you?"

"It tells me I can be ruthless and cowardly, and willing to do what I believe is necessary regardless of lack of morality. It says that I have a streak of self-preservation. It also says that there is a great deal of love and loyalty in my heart: I made my father a promise that I knew would put me in harm's way because I wished to alleviate his suffering, and I held to that promise unto the ruin of my soul."

"Evil deeds can have noble beginnings, child. Though that does not change the nature of those evil deeds, it makes a great deal of difference in the Allfather's eyes. But that is not for you to understand."

"Then I am not evil?"

"Certainly not. You told me a great deal about who you are just now, Kanafinwë Macalaurë. If I were to take all of those pieces of your identity and put them into a few words, I would say that you are a soldier and a true son of your father, with all the implications that lie therein, for good and for ill. I cannot, of course, condone the Kinslayings – but no, child, you are not evil. If you were, you would have put those Peredhil boys to the sword in Sirion, or worse, you would have made your brother do it."

Maglor looks up in time to see Fëanor catch one of the tumbling embers and spare it from a death in the waves. The ghost turns it tenderly over in his hand, and then suddenly, it dissolves into his skin. Maglor shakes his head to clear it, convinced he is hallucinating, and when he looks up again, the ghost is staring at him out of bright, piercing eyes.

"How do you know about Elrond and Elros?" he asks. "There have been other things you have mentioned as well, things that took place long after my father was slain."

"The dead see many things," says the ghost idly, flexing the fingers of the hand that held the ember moments ago.

"My father would never have the objectivity to say some of the things you have spoken. Who are you? Are you truly Fëanor son of Finwë?"

The ghost smiles and gets to his feet. "That matters little," he says cheerfully. "I told you that I am your father, and so I am. I would not lie to you. Now, come. There is something I wish you to see."

Still suspicious (but feeling rather lighter of heart now that he has been assured he is not a monster), Maglor takes the ghost's proffered hand and walks with him down to the edge of the waves. Fëanor then lifts his wrist almost casually, and Maglor watches in awe as the sun sinks below the horizon, casting the cloak of night over the beach. Stunned, he turns to Fëanor for an explanation, but the ghost is staring out at the darkened sea with a vague smile on his lips, and says nothing.

"Watch," is all he says.

Maglor does so, captivated by this display of power.

And then, before his eyes, a wondrous spectacle unfolds in the water as hundreds and hundreds of little blue-green lights flicker into life before him. They bob and sway with the current, lifted upon the waves and then sinking back down again, forming a mesh of lights to mirror the stars above.

"What are they?" Maglor breathes, hardly daring to break the stillness.

"They are little sea creatures that make their own light within their bodies," says Fëanor, and Maglor can hear the affection in his voice. "They are called sea ghosts or the fire of the sea when they gather in this way."

"They are very wise," says Maglor wonderingly. "They never need be afraid, even with darkness before and darkness behind, for they carry light with them always. I…I wish I was so fortunate."

"But you are," says the ghost, the turquoise light playing over his face. "You too bear a shining lamp within you, though it does not show itself so regularly as the lamps of these little ones. You are a child of Eru, and therefore you are also a child of light."

The ghost lays a gentle hand on Maglor's chest, right over his heart, and to his astonishment, a little fire blossoms into life there, a golden-red fire that fills him with infinite warmth, and a strange feeling of love.

"Behold the light of your soul, Kanafinwë Macalaurë," says Fëanor. "Do you believe now that you are indeed a child of Eru, as you told me?"

Maglor has no words with which to respond. To his horror, he feels hot tears filling his eyes, and try as he might, he cannot keep them from spilling down his cheeks. Fëanor draws him into his arms without a word, and Maglor leans his head against the ghost's chest and weeps quietly, ages of experience and sorrow and death falling away and leaving naught but a little boy, frightened of being alone. He cannot even bring himself to be embarrassed, so good does it feel to be held in the arms of someone stronger and wiser.

Behind them, the little sea creatures carry on spreading their lights over the dark waters, unafraid.

* * *

 **Author's Notes  
**

The "Peredhil boys" are Elrond and Elros, in case anyone was wondering. _Peredhel_ is Sindarin for _half-elven_ , and _Peredhil_ is the plural.

The "fire of the sea" is a real thing: it's caused by bio-luminescent jellyfish (they produce light in their bodies through a chemical reaction) of the species _Noctiluca scintillans_ when they come to the surface to feed on plankton. It's a fact I picked up several years ago when I was first considering studying biology in college, and I've loved the idea ever since. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Third part! It's a little shorter than the last two, but no less profound for Maglor, I promise. I hope you're making lots of guesses as to the true nature of Maglor's guide right about now... ;)  
**

* * *

Maglor is much more comfortable with his father's ghost after that night on the beach, and the ghost is more affectionate. Fëanor still questions him ruthlessly on a daily basis, but when their sessions end, he allows Maglor to sleep on his shoulder, enveloped in warmth and golden energy. And when Maglor wakes, as always, the land around them has changed entirely.

"Kanafinwë Macalaurë, who are you?" Fëanor asks each and every day.

"A child of Eru. A son of Fëanor. A brother. A musician. A soldier," Maglor often replies.

"And who aren't you?"

"I am not evil. I am not a monster."

They are simple answers, but true ones. They also seem to please the ghost, who knows that the simple answers are the hardest to find, for they are often lost in the complexities of life. Each time he repeats these affirmations, Maglor believes them more and more: they are indeed becoming a part of his soul. If he thinks about it deeply enough, he suspects he is even beginning to forgive himself.

He cannot explain exactly what has caused his change of heart, but he suspects it has something to do with seeing those little sea creatures and their lights, and with them the light of his own spirit. He never says so, but he is achingly grateful to the ghost for showing them to him.

"I know I have wrought evil deeds," Maglor says one evening as they sit in a field, surrounded by the musty smell of sun-warmed grass. "Perhaps I did so out of love and loyalty, but… You do not know how I wish I could change it all, how I wish I could make it so that so many need not have died."

Fëanor smiles inscrutably. "You have come so very far in our time together, child, and yet still there is a part of you that wishes to run from the past. Were you never taught that all things, for good or for ill, have their place in the Allfather's plan? He is a master architect, and He makes no mistakes. No theme is ever sung that has not its source in Him."

Maglor has heard such things said many times, but he cannot quite bring himself to believe them. "If that is so, then what is my place? What good could possibly have come of my past?"

"So very bright, yet so very blind you are," says Fëanor gently. "Perhaps it is time you look into your past, and see if you cannot find the good in it."

"And how shall I do that?"

"You will experience a series of visions. You will not be able to interact with them in any way, only to observe, but that will be quite enough, I think."

Maglor's stomach lurches uncomfortably. The two of them have been discussing the Kinslayings for some time now, but it seems that now, the ghost has something more drastic in mind. Maglor does not at all fancy the prospect of reliving his darkest memories in vivid detail. Moreover, he is not certain he will be able to bear it. Speaking of the past is one thing, but seeing it come to life before his eyes is quite another.

A wind sweeps the plain, and Maglor shivers, though it is not cold. Fëanor tucks his arm around him, and Maglor feels his own fingers close reflexively in the folds of his father's cloak, as though he is a little child again.

"I do not think I am ready," says Maglor. His voice sounds very small and frightened.

"You are," says the ghost, "and you must do this if you are ever to make peace with yourself. Nearly every spirit that passes through Mandos undergoes a similar rite. Trust in me, dear one. Please."

This startles Maglor more than anything he has yet heard from Fëanor. The ghost has always given him commands, kind but inexorable; he has never requested anything. In all their time together, he has never said "please." For whatever reason, this makes what Maglor is being asked to undergo seem all the more important.

Fëanor does not press him for an answer. He simply wraps his hands around his son's and waits, lacing their fingers together over Maglor's racing heart.

"Very well," says Maglor at last. "Show me what you will."

The ghost kisses the top of his head with infinite tenderness.

"Blessings go with you, child. Keep your mind open and your heart yet more so."

And before Maglor can say another word, all is blackness. When the light returns, he is in another place, and another time.

He is astonished at how alone he feels without his father's ghost at his side.

888

The memories come slowly, at first.

He is a little child, and he has stumbled upon his father's office. It is a place of wonders, that room, its shelves lined with leather-bound books and yellowed scrolls and strange, sparkling little creations of metal and glass. Young Macalaurë understands none of these things, but they are entrancing nonetheless. His eye is drawn to a small lap harp that has been left on the window seat, beautifully carven with climbing vines and flowers. Curiosity flaring, he scrambles up and begins to pluck experimentally at the strings. He has never played a harp before, but he has seen his father do so, and he can feel things about this instrument, somehow. He recalls a lullaby his mother often sings to him, and he plucks the strings until he finds the right notes and fits the melody together.

Fëanáro comes in, no doubt fresh from whatever it is he and Haru Finwë do at court. His strides are long and frustrated, and his eyes are swollen and rimmed with red. Macalaurë can feel the pain rolling off of him in waves, and he knows that his father has been hurt, somehow. He stops playing all too late. Fëanáro has heard him, and now he will certainly scold Macalaurë for venturing into his private quarters and playing his instrument. But Fëanáro does nothing of the sort. He takes a long look at his little son, and a light of amazement flickers to life in his tired eyes. "How are you doing that?" he asks Macalaurë, voice low and wondering. "Can you go on?" And so Macalaurë plays for him, and with him, until he feels the pain fade from Fëanáro's spirit.

He is several years older but still very much a child, and his right ankle is a bloody, swollen mess bearing twin rows of a wolf's teeth marks. The forest is dark and wind-tossed, the rain coming down in sheets. Macalaurë and his father have managed to evade the worst of the storm by ducking into an alcove in the rocks, but Macalaurë is still cold and hurting and afraid. Fëanáro is afraid too – Macalaurë can feel his father's arms shaking ever so slightly as they wrap around him, and the way Fëanáro's pulse flutters frantically in his chest.

Macalaurë does the only thing he can think of to comfort them both: he sings. His child's voice is very small and tremulous with fear and loss of blood, but its purity is not lost. Gradually, his father adds his voice to the melody, and Macalaurë is astonished to hear that it is quite as small and shaky as his own. They sing quietly to each other until Macalaurë falls asleep. Fëanáro keeps watch over them both, humming the simple melody over and over to comfort him through Telperion's long night.

He is standing before a funeral pyre in Formenos, upon which lies his grandfather's lifeless body. Ambarto is weeping gently beside him, and Maitimo, who was ever the closest of them all to Haru Finwë, is too stiff and straight not to be trying to hold back tears. Curufinwë, never one to accept affection, is dry-eyed and refusing to be touched. Fëanáro stands in the center, head bowed and hood cast over his face. Macalaurë cannot imagine how his father could have any tears left to shed by now, but he suspects, from Fëanáro's posture, that this may indeed be the case.

He does not sing. No words, no melody could possibly contain all the grief that has been visited upon the Noldor. There ought to be, but Macalaurë cannot find it. His music has failed him. He slips his hand into Fëanáro's instead, and his father's skin is quite as cold as Finwë's.

Up until this point, Maglor has had time to reflect upon each vision he has been given. Now the memories begin to come faster and faster, falling like raindrops upon the surface of his mind, rippling outwards and then vanishing again. Still, the images he receives are remarkably clear in spite of their rapidity, and each one manages to leave an indelible impression on him. Some are simple, some are profound, but all carry their own silent messages.

He is in Alqualondë, giving his final recital before graduating from music school. There is a silence as he finishes his performance, and then tumultuous applause fills the theater and the audience is laughing and crying all at once, their eyes bright with more emotion than they know how to explain.

He is in Alqualondë, fighting to take the ships and not to be sick as he helps his father, white-faced and grim, scramble out of the cistern he has just nearly been drowned in. He tries not to think about the fate of the young Telerin prince Fëanáro stabbed in order to save himself.

He is kneeling at Maedhros' bedside, watching his elder brother's scarred face contort with pain as he wanders in dark fever dreams.

He is fighting in a conflict the name of which he does not know, and there is a glorious red haze of battle-fury blocking off his fear and dulling his pain and fatigue. Through it all, he thinks how proud Fëanor would be if he could see his secondborn fighting so capably with a sword in each hand.

He is leading a retreat back to Himring. It will be easy, he thinks, to blame the smoke-filled air for his damp, reddened eyes.

He is staring down at the severed head of Uldor, the treacherous Easterling who brought the Noldor to ruin, and as he wonders at how warm the blood feels on his face, he finds himself laughing at all those who thought to call Maglor Fëanorian _gentle_.

He is briefing a company of his soldiers, all bright-eyed and eager and trusting him, admiring him absolutely. Later, he hears his own voice ringing across the battlefield and marvels at the strength in it.

He is in his tent preparing to sleep for the night, and he is talking and joking with his young squire, hoping against hope that he can put the boy at ease. Surely it cannot be good for someone so young to always be so nervous.

He is giving Aranyë her orders just before the Bragollach, and it occurs to him suddenly that the girl may be quite in love with him.

He is watching Maedhros die, watching him fall back to the flames from whence he came.

He is staring across a clearing at a pretty young Sinda, watching the light of the sun throw dancing sparks into her brown hair. Her light feet carry her through the grass, and then she is in his arms, and they dance without need of music, and for one suspended moment they have all the power they need to make time stand still.

Cullasseth. Rhavloth Cullasseth. Her name, and no more than that. His angel of fire, his goddess of spring.

He loves her. Yes, he does. He can feel it now. There is no rush of heat through his veins as there once was, but there is also no mistaking the tingling that runs up his limbs and makes him dizzy, nor the pleasant tightening of his chest.

He loves Rhavloth Cullasseth.

The rain of memories passes, and, exhausted, Maglor feels as if from a great distance his head drop onto Fëanor's shoulder.

His last conscious recollection is of the ghost singing an ancient, wordless melody. Maglor thinks, detachedly, that it is wonderful to have someone sing to him for a change.

888

Maglor is left so drained in heart and spirit by his journey into the past that it is several days (are they days?) before Fëanor begins their sessions once more. Maglor is deeply grateful for the reprieve. He needs time to reflect on what he has seen, to assimilate each piece of the puzzle into something coherent. He spends long periods sleeping, his head on Fëanor's shoulder, Fëanor toying soothingly with Maglor's hair just as he did in life. In these times of rest, his mind slowly clears.

One evening, the two are sitting on the mountaintop again, the ghost's cloak around Maglor's shoulders and a fire between them. There is always a fire, though they do not need it. Maglor begins to suspect that it is not there simply for his comfort, but that it has something to do with the golden energy that flows in his guardian's veins.

"Are you feeling strong enough to carry on?" asks the ghost. Maglor nods. "Very well. Tell me, then, Kanafinwë Macalaurë – what did you learn from your walk through the past?"

Maglor cocks his head thoughtfully. He recalls seeing himself in battle, in mourning, with his music, with his family, with Cullasseth… He senses that there is some connection between all this, but whatever it is, it hovers just beyond the borders of his comprehension.

He shakes his head. "There must be some sort of common thread," he muses, "but I cannot yet see it."

"I encourage you to speak your thoughts," Fëanor prompts. "Something may fall into place."

After all this time, Maglor is still afraid of saying something irredeemably stupid to the ghost who seems to know everything there is to know about the world and those in it, and so he hesitates. He thinks. He chooses his words carefully.

"Well, I do not recall being alone in any of the memories. There was always someone with me."

A smile twitches at the corners of Fëanáro's lips. "Or perhaps you have it backwards."

"Backwards?" For all that Maglor is achingly grateful to the ghost for all he has done, at times his cryptic riddles grow rather tiresome. "Should I rather have said that I was always with someone?"

The ghost blinks innocently.

"I was always with someone," Maglor repeats, and then again, more slowly, tasting the words, deconstructing them and putting them back together. "I was always…with someone."

"Aye, you were. What does that mean?"

"Oh, I know not. Does it mean that I…that I tried always to be at the side of those I loved, even if I could offer them no comfort?"

"Go on."

The words begin to come more easily, the pieces falling into place one by one. "I gave of myself to others. Yes, I did. I gave performances in my youth not only because it made me happy, but because I could gladden and soothe the hearts of my audience as well. I swore my father's oath and joined his rebellion because I thought it would comfort him to know he had my fealty, and my sword. When Maedhros was captured, Celegorm wanted the kingship, and I wanted so badly to give it to him, but I refused, because that was not a burden I wished my little brother to bear. I tried always to keep my soldiers out of the worst danger, and then when Maedhros… When he died, I went on living because he said he wished me to."

Fëanor's ghost is smiling now, and the energy in his veins seems to be glowing more brightly, as if rejoicing that Maglor is finally nearing an answer. "And what does that say about who you are, child? What does it say about your past?"

"It says that I…I was a friend and an ally and a comfort to many people. It says that I could be selfless, and that if had been anything other than what I was…"

"Many lives might have been sadder and lonelier," the ghost finishes, because Maglor is thinking the same thing but does not know how to say it, "your own life included. Had you never come to Beleriand, you would not have met your Lady Cullasseth, nor she you. The love you share would not have been born."

"Then I ought not to regret the past, because there was indeed good in it."

"Precisely. What you ought to do is rejoice in your glad memories and learn from your sorrowful ones. Remember what I told you: though you cannot change the past, you can change how you see it, and that can make a world of difference."

Fëanor draws one leg up to his chest, clasps his hands around it, and rests his chin on his knee. "And so I ask you, for what may well be the last time: Kanafinwë Macalaurë, who are you?"

This seems altogether sudden and strange, but the bright glow has not faded from the ghost's veins. He must be anticipating some further success this evening, Maglor thinks. And so he begins, as he always does,

"I am a child of Eru –"

Fëanor's ghost holds up a hand. "No, child. Not like that, not tonight. You are ready for something more now. Tell me who you are."

For a moment, Maglor's frustration nearly gets the better of him. He is tempted to demand, "If you know so much of my soul, then tell me who _you_ say I am!"

But he says nothing of the kind.

"I am a son of Fëanáro," he begins, hesitantly at first, and then steadily growing more confident as he closes his eyes and speaks from his heart. "He gave me my ability to love deeply, with all my being. He gave me my determination and yes, my ruthlessness too. He gave me my love of beauty, and of creating beauty.

"I am a son of Nerdanel. From her comes my willingness to sacrifice for the sake of others, and to be loyal to the point of death. From her comes my strength and my reason, my quiet heart and mind. She gave me courage. She made me believe that I could – and should – chase any dream, no matter how impossible it might seem.

"I am a soldier. There are certain things in which I believe absolutely, and I am willing to fight for those things, be it with my sword or my words or my music. I am willing to defend my people, my family, and the things they treasure. I am willing to do whatever it may take to accomplish that…even if I also fear to face the consequences.

"I am a child of Eru. His is the life and the light that I bear within me. I have done many things with those greatest of gifts. I have been a friend and a son and a brother, a kinslayer and a king and an artist. I have done many things with the life my Father gave me, for good and for ill, and…and that is all right. I accept it. I cannot say I have forgiven myself as of yet, at least not entirely, but I…I believe that I shall now be able to do so."

After all he has said, this seems a strangely inadequate conclusion even to Maglor's ears. He is all the more astonished, thus, when the ghost begins to chuckle softly. Fëanor opens his arms to Maglor, and Maglor nestles beside him as though he is a boy once more.

"Bravo, child," the ghost whispers into Maglor's hair. "You have it right at last."

* * *

 **Author's Notes**

I know I mixed Quenya and Sindarin names in the segment where Maglor takes a walk through his memories, but that's on purpose. The Quenya names are used for the memories that take place in Valinor and the Sindarin ones for the memories that occur in Beleriand, for the sake of linguistic and historical accuracy.

The next part will be the last!


	4. Chapter 4

**So this is it! Thank you so much to all of you who took this journey with me. It was a challenging one, and it gave me a chance to play with a bit of a different writing style and learn a lot along the way. I hope you all enjoy the conclusion of Maglor's path back to the light! :)  
**

* * *

"But why now? Why so sudden?"

"There is nothing sudden about it, child. You have been preparing for this moment since you stepped into Elostirion, and now you are ready."

Shortly after his last session with the ghost, Maglor woke from a rejuvenating sleep to find himself clad in simple, beautiful robes of pale blue and silver. He has seen enough ships set sail for Valinor to know that these are the colors of exiles returning home, and of the reborn. He is only too aware what this means for him: the time has come for him to part ways with his guide.

They are on the mountaintop still, and the sun is setting, as always. The rich colors no longer torment Maglor with visions of fire and treachery as they once did, but he has not yet decided how he feels about them now. Instead, he simply looks upon the sky with the artist's appreciation for beauty he inherited from his parents.

Fëanor's ghost stands before him, benevolent as ever, the golden streams of energy beneath his skin mirroring the light of sunset. The aesthetic suits him, Maglor thinks, for all that he is certain now that his guide is not truly his father. How appropriate it would be for the Spirit of Fire to bear liquid flame in his veins rather than blood.

Suddenly, Maglor cannot imagine carrying on without him, whoever he might be.

"Am I ready?" Maglor asks doubtfully. He certainly does not feel so. He still does not know what on earth he will say to his soldiers, much less his mother and brothers, when he sees them again. And what of the Teleri in Alqualondë? Surely he owes them some sort of reparation, or at the very least a heartfelt expression of regret. Just the thought of reuniting with the folk he once knew causes his heart to beat wildly against his ribs.

"You are, dearest one," says the ghost, tenderly stroking one of Maglor's hands with his thumb. "That is not to say that your journey is over, for you will have much to do when you reach Valinor, but you are ready to take that next step. Now, had you passed through Mandos, you would first be required to hear the names of all who have died either by your hand or by your choices. Well, dear Námo may think that necessary, but I do not. You are more than aware of your wrongs, I believe. There is no need for me to reiterate them. No, once you have received my judgment, I shall send you home."

Maglor is so startled by this last statement that it is all he can do not to tumble backwards off the mountaintop. "Your – your judgment?" he stutters. "But that would mean that you are… You cannot be!"

"Cannot be what, child?" says the ghost, smiling vaguely.

"You are not Fëanor son of Finwë!"

"I never claimed to be."

"But you told me that you are my father!"

"And so I am. I did not lie to you. I am your father, as I am the father of all."

This confirms Maglor's suspicions, and he feels his heart begin to beat faster still. "Father of all…" he breathes in little more than a whisper. "Allfather. You are Eru Allfather."

The ghost's smile broadens affectionately. "I was, am, and ever shall be. You were so very broken in spirit when you came here, child, and you needed a gentler touch than what Námo could provide. I simply took the form of one whom I knew you would trust to make you more comfortable."

This explains everything: the ghost's objectivity, his intimate knowledge of Maglor's mind and heart, his ability to change forms and manipulate the surrounding lands, the golden energy in his veins – the Flame of Anor, Maglor realizes, the sacred fire that burns at the center of the world and sustains all living things. It all makes sense now.

This realization does not alleviate Maglor's fears. He has a strange and powerful urge to prostrate himself at the ghost's feet and beg for mercy.

"Am I…truly so important that you would come to me personally?" he asks. His voice is very small, smaller than it has been since he was a child.

The Allfather reaches out and caresses Maglor's cheek so gently and with such love that it makes his heart ache. "You are my creation and my son," he says. It is still Fëanor's voice, but Maglor can hear an undercurrent of something deeper and more ageless in it now. "You are infinitely precious to me."

Maglor knows that he could never formulate a reply to this, not even if he had an eternity.

"Now, will you hear my judgment?"

"Wait," Maglor says in a desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable. "If…if it is not forbidden to ask…what of my father? How is he?"

For a brief moment, something pained flickers into the Allfather's bright eyes. "My dear Fëanáro," and it is very strange to hear this, seemingly, from Fëanor himself, "has been released from the Void, but he is still in the keeping of Námo. His body has been restored to him, but he is not yet ready to return to the living world. Still, he is much better now than when he first came to us. He has done beautifully, truly. Námo will never admit to it, but he is quite proud of the progress your father has made. It will not be too terribly long now before we may return him to you."

Maglor feels his heart leap within him at this news. He takes the Allfather's hands in his and kisses them reverently. "Thank you," he murmurs without knowing what it is he says. "Thank you for saving him. Thank you for…for everything you have done to save me."

"You saved yourself, dearest one. I merely helped you along." With these words, the Allfather brushes a finger gently over Maglor's burned palms. To his very great astonishment, he finds that all the stiffness has vanished from his hands, and he can move them as freely as if they had never been wounded at all.

His heart too full for words, his cheeks damp with tears, Maglor kneels and prepares to receive judgment.

When it comes, it is not at all what he expected.

"Kanafinwë Macalaurë Fëanárion," says the Allfather in a voice that is and is not Fëanor's, "it is my will that thy long exile be ended. Thy sins I forgive; return home now and sin no more, but turn thy heart to love of thy kinfolk, whomever they may be. From the darkness I have called thee back to the light. From this moment forth, thy spirit shall be healed and made new, and thou shalt be reborn as surely as if thee had passed through death. Arise and go with my blessing, child of my heart."

The Allfather kisses Maglor's brow, and a feeling he can only describe as love, pure and infinite, breaks over him. It fills him from the depths of his soul and upwards, fills him to the brim, so that it seems as though his spirit will break under the strain. It is too much, far too much, and yet he needs it so, so very badly. It has been so long since he has felt anything like this, any such unconditional forgiveness and acceptance and healing…

Overcome, Maglor looks to the sky, to the sunset…but no, it is not the sunset, but the sunrise. It has been the sunrise all along, the symbol of new hopes and new chances and of dark nights left in the past. Maglor finds himself laughing, wondering how he could possibly have been so blind to it.

And then his world goes black, surrounding him in a warm, comforting darkness of the sort that one sinks into after a very satisfying day.

When he comes back to himself, he is sitting on the steps of Elostirion some ways up the tower. The little lamp he hurled at the floor in frustration so long ago is sitting in his lap, quite whole and undamaged.

The light within it is the very same which flowed through every one of the Allfather's earthly forms.

888

By Maglor's reckoning, his journey with the Allfather seems to have taken several months. By the reckoning of Rhavloth Cullasseth, who has been waiting for him on the beach, he cannot have been gone much more than a day. This is not surprising to her, for she knows that time passes differently in the realms of the spirit, but even so, she is utterly taken aback by the change that has come over Maglor. Were she of a more sentimental bent of mind, she would have wept for joy.

When Maglor greets her at the base of Elostirion, he is no longer pale and drawn and bowed with the weight of the past. He no longer shivers with every light sea breeze, and the dark smudges of exhaustion beneath his eyes are all but gone. If Cullasseth looks carefully enough, she can still see a lingering shadow of regret in his face, but even that is greatly diminished. He seems younger and happier than he has in ages, a spirit reborn as surely as if he had passed through Mandos. This impression strikes Cullasseth so strongly that she is tempted to ask Maglor if he did indeed die, but she holds her tongue.

Maglor sweeps Cullasseth into his arms before she can say a word, and she is astonished at the love she feels radiating from his spirit. Relieved beyond words, she rests her head on his shoulder and her hand on his heart, reveling in the strong vibrations of his pulse.

"My goodness, what happened to you?" she laughs as he lifts her off the ground and kisses her tenderly. "You are quite changed, Maglor Fëanorian! Why, I daresay your heart is lighter even than when I first met you!"

"I daresay it is," Maglor replies, his voice richer than Cullasseth has heard in ages. "I would not claim to be entirely at peace with myself and my past, but I do believe I am well on my way."

He sets her down and looks intently into her eyes, suddenly grave. "May Eru forgive me for forgetting how much I love you, Rhavloth Cullasseth," he says. "I pray I have not wasted too much time."

Cullasseth feels her heart begin to race as it does in battle, and when next she speaks, she is nearly breathless. "No," she says. "No, you certainly have not."

For ages Cullasseth has struggled with her feelings for the secondborn of Fëanor, wondering whether it is the love of friendship or the love of romance she harbors in her heart. She knows the answer now. Maglor's courage in facing the trial of his soul in spite of all his fears has cleared her mind. She is so very proud of him. She wants to be there for him now and forever, for all the trials he will face in the future. She would very much like to be his wife, she thinks, but suddenly, she is afraid to say so. This frustrates her to no end. She has faced dragons and trolls and legions of orcs; why should she fear to say a few simple words? But she is afraid, and that is that.

She will tell him, she decides. But not tonight. She will tell him when her heart bids her.

"It will never be too late for you to return to me," she says instead, and prays it is enough. "I will always be at your side."

I always have been, she adds to herself, thinking of all the lonely years she spent watching over Maglor as a houseless spirit, as the unidentifiable voice of counsel in his mind. She does not say this either.

"Thank you," Maglor murmurs, his breath stirring Cullasseth's hair as he holds her close. Her heart squeezes painfully, and again the words she knows she must say to him dance on her lips. "Thank you ever so much. Where would I be without you?"

Cullasseth has never liked to consider this; it makes her feel all too guilty for dying in the Bragollach when she could have fled at Maglor's side. She does not reply, for she and Maglor have never needed words. Instead, she contents herself with running her hands up and down his shoulders, trying to remember if he has always felt so strong and steady, or if that is a new development as well.

"Well," she says after a long moment, "all that's left now is to go to the Grey Havens and take a ship to Valinor, but…we can do that in the morning, if you haven't any objections. Besides, you have yet to tell me what happened to cause such a change in you."

Maglor looks out at the sea, where the sun is once again turning the water to fire. To Cullasseth's surprise, there is neither sorrow nor pain in his face, but only a strange new peace. She watches as he draws a little golden lamp from a pouch at his waist, a lamp burning with something entirely apart from fire. He turns it over in his hands, almost unconsciously. "Well," he says, and his voice seems to come from somewhere far away, "it was the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life. There were times when I wanted to give up, when I did not think I could stand to face my past once more, but…but I did it. And I saw my father, Rhavloth Cullasseth. I saw my father, and he brought me back to the light."

Cullasseth's heart leaps. "Your father? Do you mean –"

"No," says Maglor, "not the father you have in mind."

Cullasseth is silent, wondering whom Maglor could be speaking of, if not Fëanor himself. She recalls hearing some of the dead refer to the Lord of Mandos as their father, for in spite of his cold exterior, he could be quite gentle and paternal when he wished to be. But Maglor is not dead, and even if it were so, Cullasseth doubts that any follower of Fëanor would see the Lord of Mandos in such a kindly light.

"Who, then?" she asks.

"My father," says Maglor agin, and Cullasseth knows that this is all she will get out of him. Maglor may not have Fëanor's temper, but he certainly has his stubbornness.

888

Maglor and Cullasseth spend that night on the beach just as they did every night before Maglor entered Elostirion, and yet the feeling in the air could not be more different. Cullasseth detects only faint traces of sorrow surrounding Maglor, which tells her that his wounds are buried deep and no longer bleeding. Curious as she is, she does not press him for details of his journey in the tower. What happened to him there is between him and whatever power he interacted with.

Cullasseth has forgotten how good affection can feel. Her comrades in the Vanguard are dearer to her than sisters, but the ties that bind her to Maglor are of an entirely different sort. She has missed him more sorely than even she realized, she thinks as she rests bedside him, her head on his chest and his arm curled over her shoulders. She would not trade this feeling for all the battlefield victories in the world.

The stars seem brighter tonight than ever before, and though Cullasseth knows they cannot be, she is content to indulge in the fantasy.

"Maedhros was born under the sign of the Sickle of the Valar," Maglor muses as he raises one finger to trace the constellation of seven stars. "That signifies a person of great courage and loyalty, a person who guides and guards all those around him. Now, Adar never put much store by the writing in the stars, but…even he seemed to believe that particular message was true in my brother's case. Maedhros looked after us all, even Adar, with never a thought to spare for himself. I wish you had known him better."

"Perhaps I shall," says Cullasseth, the tip of her index finger brushing the whorls in the glass lamp Maglor brought down from Elostirion. "I am coming to Valinor with you, you know. Many of my comrades live in Formenos, and I believe I could better serve the Vanguard if I was there as well. Besides, I…I want to be there when…"

Cullasseth falters, suddenly terrified that what she hopes for will never be granted.

Sensing her fear, Maglor draws her closer. "When Adar returns?" he finishes for her. "Well, I have a bit of good news for you, then. When I was in Elostirion, I was told that my father has been healing well of late, and that it will not be too long now before he can come back to us."

Cullasseth sits bolt upright, all the joy she felt upon seeing Maglor emerge from the tower returning to her. "Are you certain?" she asks, scarcely daring to breathe.

"I am," says Maglor with a smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Cullasseth's ear, "and I suspect Adar will be delighted to see you again. He often spoke of you, you know, in those days before he…before the Balrogs came. He trusted you, and trust was all but a stranger to him by then. You were a light to him in those last months of his life, Rhavloth Cullasseth. I hope you know that."

Cullasseth finds herself at once overjoyed and terribly sad. "I only wish I could have done more for him," she says, shaking her head at her own inadequacy. "I let him die."

"It was his time," says Maglor firmly, and Cullasseth suspects that he knows that to be true now, that this was among the things revealed to him in Elostirion. "You did far more than you know. You were young and bright-eyed and adventurous in those days, and your presence was a great comfort to Adar. Never forget that."

"I wish I could have saved him," says Cullasseth mournfully. I caught a glimpse of the gates of the Void on my way into Mandos, and I…I do not like to think what he must have suffered in that place."

"Nor do I," Maglor admits, biting his lip, "but if what I was told in the tower is true, then that is all behind him, and there is naught but healing for him now. That is a comforting thought, no?"

Cullasseth sighs deeply, closes her eyes, and banishes her doubts from her mind. "It is," she says, smiling now. "You know, I have been building a new repeating crossbow, and I would very much like to show it to him when he returns…that is, if I ever get the silly thing working."

"Oh, you will. If you could convince me to walk into that tower and face my fate, you can do anything."

With that, Cullasseth kisses Maglor once more, lays her head back down on his chest, and sleeps the sleep of the deeply contented, his heartbeat mingling with hers.

The next morning, they set sail for Valinor. It is a long journey, and it tests Maglor's nerves to the breaking point. More than once, Cullasseth wonders whether it would not have been kinder to let him remain in Middle-earth. She is certain he wonders the same thing.

But when they arrive, and Maglor finds himself swept into his mother's arms and listening to her words of love and forgiveness, it is more than worth it for all of them.

The sunset has passed. The long, dark night is over.

The sunrise is come.

* * *

 **Author's Notes**

The Sickle of the Valar, or Valacirca, corresponds to the constellation we know as Ursa Major, the Great Bear (more commonly called the Big Dipper).

Those of you who've been following my novel-length work, "One Star in the Sky," will recognize the reference to Cullasseth's repeating crossbow. She completes and shows off that particular weapon during the "Formenos" arc of "One Star."

Now, I know a lot of you are probably wondering why I chose not to write Maglor's reunion with his family in this particular story. First of all, fear not, because I do plan to write that scenario in the future, but as part of the Arda Vignettes, where I can do it the full justice it deserves. Adding it onto this story would have seemed out of place, in my opinion. The other more important reason is that this story wasn't meant to be focused on Maglor's return home, but on the journey he took to get to that point. This was his story, and Cullasseth's, and the Allfather's, and it wasn't meant to be so much about his family. So you can look forward to Maglor's homecoming in full as part of my "Arda Vignettes," but for now, I hope you enjoyed this journey! To those of you who are reading "One Star in the Sky," thank you so much for all your praise and support! I couldn't do it without you! :)


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